<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Blue Eyes, Red Lips by QueenForADay</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28603734">Blue Eyes, Red Lips</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay'>QueenForADay</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Wolf and the Shrike [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blow Jobs, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Dirty Talk, Dry Humping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eskel Has Self-Esteem Issues (The Witcher), Eskel Whump (The Witcher), Explicit Sexual Content, Gentle Dom Eskel (The Witcher), Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, POV Eskel (The Witcher), Top Eskel (The Witcher), Trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:08:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,037</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28603734</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There are two rules within the household; Geralt is in charge, and don't ask about Eskel's scars. </p><p>He's stopped keeping track of the date, but knows when it's coming when he starts bristling and snapping at everyone about everything. He doesn't mean to. Lights blind and sounds deafen. It's too much and he just wants to bury himself in his bed until the day is gone. Then, maybe, he can get on with his life. He's still hurting, and it's not coming from the scars. </p><p>Jaskier wants to help alleviate some of that pain.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Wolf and the Shrike [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092515</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>213</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Blue Eyes, Red Lips</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Oop, including more Jaskier/xxx pairings. One of the main reasons why I decided to make these separate fics as part of a series...that and the tagging would have been awful (and I already hate tagging, so win/win)</p><p>**Idea, once again, came from the wonderful <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/crateofkate/pseuds/crateofkate">crateofkate</a> so blame her. Or thank her. Whatever you're vibing.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He doesn’t think much of it as a date in the calendar anymore. The day and its events and all that came after it are all long lost to a foggy, overshadowing haze that shrouds him from the worst of his memories. The last thing he can remember is something visceral; how hard his heart rattled his chest, how tight his lungs were and how they burned with each breath he pulled in as he raced down the hallway.</p><p>It was stupid. He knew that. Everyone knew that. He got enough of an earful from Vesemir about it in the weeks after; when the elder was assured that his pup would be alright, and that Eskel was lucid enough to understand the harsh lessons he was about to be lectured on. And it’s possibly the only thing he remembers from that time; Vesemir’s booming voice rattling the walls and roof of the house, his lecture being heard down the street. Not being able to look the elder in the eye, what he could feel of his face flushed red in shame. It was a mistake. A stupid, frantic decision made without consulting anyone, including himself. And he paid the price for it.</p><p>He doesn’t even keep the date in mind. It’s just another day in the year, and he gets on with it. It’s hard to. He’s not going to say that it isn’t. There’s a permanent reminder etched into him that he fucked up, and no amount of therapy or surgery can help elevate the sting that starts prickling the side of his face when that particular date starts creeping nearer and nearer.</p><p>It’s a physical thing. When the month of <em>that date</em> rolls in, Eskel’s shoulders start to tense and he can’t fill his lungs properly anymore. Lights strain and sting his eyes, and every sound is deafening. He’s learned how to take care of himself. He keeps himself to himself and everyone else knows to keep their distance; just until his hackles start to lie back down along his neck and his teeth soften.</p><p>There’s an unspoken rule within the pack; don’t mention the scars. The new pups picked up with every year, they learn two things before they’ve even been invited into the pack’s den: Geralt is the head of the household, and don’t ask about Eskel’s scars. Some pups learned their lessons the hard way. He can’t blame them, he supposes. It’s not an easy thing to miss. It’s incredibly noticeable. And he hates it. He hates when people first meet him, their eyes meet his for a blinking second before wandering to the side of his face. There have only been a handful of admirable attempts by the pups to keep their eyes locked on Eskel’s, to not look at the scars taking up most of the right side of his face.</p><p>He doesn’t mean to start prickling when the day comes around. Teeth get sharper and his fuse gets shorter. People who have bumped into him in the hallway of the house, or on the street, regardless of who they are, they get the same treatment. A snarled lip and a piercing glare. Geralt knows not to rise to it, and that Eskel doesn’t mean to bare his teeth at their leader. The elder of them knows that he went through something terrible, and the ghosts of it still linger in the shadows of his mind. Geralt holds his nerve when a wolf snarls in his face, shouting and just being difficult and defensive about nothing at all. Lambert, on the other hand, has no problem with snarling and clawing back. Their house has witnessed too many skirmishes between the two of them, and Geralt has learned to let the flames die out on their own, and not even try to interfere.</p><p>It starts prickling his skin. Everything is too much. The cotton of his button-up scratches and scalds him, no matter how many times he adjusts his collar or rolls his sleeves up and down his arms, not quite happy with how the shirt is sitting on him at all. The last shrink he saw mentioned something about oversensitivity; and it was one of the first times Eskel felt like someone was actively trying to help him understand. The others he saw before, they tried their best to explain to him that sometimes terrible things happen, and there’s nothing he could do about it. Which...was fair, but <em>bullshit</em>. But the more his most recent shrink told him about things like trauma, a word that has him flinching and wincing at the very thought of it, the more it all starts to make sense. It doesn’t mean that it gets any easier, though.</p><p>The moment he blinks awake, the haze shrouds over him. Even though he might not like keeping track of the days, he realises what date it is the moment he starts clambering awake. Even the sheets of his bed and his sweatpants he sleeps in are too much. His mood is already soured before he can even pry his eyes open.</p><p>His bed is too warm and scratches against his skin. When he slips out of it, grunting at the soft groan of his muscles as he perches on the edge of his bed, the floorboards under his feet are too cold and the room itself is too quiet. Eskel winces. It’s going to be one of the worse days, he can already tell. The logical, more put together, side of him that still lingers around, even when the other shadows start stalking forward, assures him that it’s one day. <em>One day</em> and he’ll be okay for another year.</p><p>And the shadows whisper. <em>Another year, and another, and another. </em>He’ll never be able to shake the feeling off, but all he can do is weather the storm and try to keep his head above water.</p><p>Everything is too much. The morning light stretching to his room and creeping along the floorboards; the distant mumbles of the house beginning to wake. Even though he’s still upstairs, he can smell the faint wisps of grilling bacon start to wisp under his nose. And his stomach churns.</p><p>He’ll try his best not to think about the day and all of the power it seems to give the shadows lurking and stalking in the back of his mind, but he’s learned that the day passes a bit quicker if he has a routine. A loose tee, an old, worn hoodie, and sweatpants that cuff at his ankles seem to be the only things that don’t grate on his skin. It’s the only day in the year he doesn’t venture outside the walls of his house, taking shelter within the den to weather the worst of the storm.</p><p>The house is already awake. People have been through; Eskel catches different scents in the hallway. Cheap colognes and aftershaves and hair gel that stings his nose and the roof of his mouth. His nose wrinkles and a wince tightens his face.</p><p>The whole house is too bright. Tall lancet windows cut into the redbrick walls stream harsh morning light in, and Eskel just about manages to squint through it. Every step he takes towards the kitchen, the warmer the air, lilted with smoked bacon and toasting bread.</p><p>He’ll grab what he needs and go back upstairs, like always. The fewer people he can encounter, the better; both for him and them.</p><p>Geralt is the first one to notice him slip into the kitchen, trying his best to keep to the edges so he can make a clear run for upstairs once he’s done. And Geralt already knows what day it is. Eskel might not keep track of it, but he knows that Geralt does; and will do his best to keep it as uneventful as the other days of the year. He lifts his chin in greeting, and Eskel nods. Because if he tried to speak, the words might just scratch and rip his throat.</p><p>Eskel does blink at the sight of Geralt’s little bird perched beside him at the breakfast bar; hair soft and skewed, and slightly reddened marks blooming on the bottom of his neck. He’s a strong thing, for being as lithe as he is. He has lean muscle that fills him out. But he wears one of Geralt’s shirt, loosely buttoned and revealing far too much of his chest. Eskel’s eyes wander, just for a brief second, before he turns away.</p><p>He pads over to the stove just as Lambert drifts away, pouring an ample mug of coffee for himself. The red-haired man keeps him in the corner of his eye, always watching. And whether the comment perched on his lips is something sarcastic or not, Eskel really doesn’t want to find out. He loads up a plate with everything he thinks won’t turn his stomach; bacon – because Lambert keeps a separate pan of it grilling in the way he knows Eskel likes – and eggs, alongside a few slices of lightly browned toast.</p><p>It’s not the biggest breakfast he’s ever eaten, but it’s something. He’d usually go without; only to bear the brunt of Geralt’s almost Vesemir-like scoldings that he should eat, even though the thought of food has bile rising in his throat.</p><p>Lambert leans back against the countertop, wild curls somewhat tamed into a hair tie and the faint lines of his sheets or pillowcase pressed into his face. Lambert lifts his mug in greeting, eyes briefly drifting down to “I could make you some more eggs, if you like? Our birdie took the last of them. I could make a new batch for you?”</p><p>Words stick in Eskel’s throat as he considers his sparse plate. Lambert <em>does</em> make good eggs, in the way that Eskel likes. Just like his bacon and how browned he likes his toast. He might not say much about this particular day, how Eskel prefers it if he’s being honest, but Lambert can show kindness in the little things. And he appreciates it.</p><p>Though Lambert is still Lambert, and apparently Eskel takes too long considering his simple options of eggs or no eggs.</p><p>Lambert huffs. “Good morning to you too, gorgeous.”</p><p>The last thing heard within the room is Geralt’s long-suffering, exhausted sigh, before there’s a scuffle. Eskel has enough wherewithal to spare his breakfast as he sets the head down before aiming for the upper part of Lambert’s arm.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Jaskier blinks, not entirely sure of what’s happening, but knows he has to turn back to his bacon and eggs for his own good. He might know everything about Geralt’s house just yet, but he’s good at reading a room. Skirmishes between the two younger wolves might be common, but if Geralt doesn’t interfere, then he doesn’t either.</p><p>Lambert loops his arm around the Eskel’s head, holding him in a firm lock until he can calm down.</p><p>Geralt picks at his last slice of toast, keeping his eyes on the fight not two feet away from them. He might not care about stopping it, but Jaskier watches just in case any of the hits draw blood. They never seem to. But just to be careful, it seems.  </p><p>Though his wolf’s attention is elsewhere, as Jaskier picks at the last few bites of his breakfast, moving them around on the plate, warmth blooms on his thigh. He doesn’t even have to glance down to know Geralt’s hand has settled there. Familiar fingers curl around the swell of Jaskier’s thigh, squeezing gently.</p><p>Jaskier glances at Geralt. His attention is still wholly with his brothers, the skirmish somewhat starting to dissipate and Eskel manages to break free of Lambert’s grasp. Geralt hums. It’s quiet. Neither of his brothers hears it. But Jaskier does. And he’s whole attention is with his wolf. The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitches.</p><p>And Jaskier knows the sparking of an idea anywhere. He’s known his wolf for too long, and knows the certain look well.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He knows who it’s from before even fishing his phone out of his pocket. Geralt is the only one who texts him during the day – and the only person Eskel keeps his notifications turned on for. Not a lot of the house has his number. If they need him, he just shrugs a shoulder and directs them to Lambert instead. But the <em>ping</em> of his phone shatters the somewhat peaceful silence that has blanketed the room, and Eskel winces into his pillow. He breaks an arm out of his nest of blankets, fumbling around for his phone on the bedside table.</p><p>The sun is still outside, trying it’s very best to break through the near-blackout curtains Eskel has installed on to his windows. When his senses start to calm and wane, it strips the energy from his body with them. He’s learned how to burrow into bed and stay there until the sun falls and rises again. And the further away he can get from this day, the better.</p><p>His phone’s screen blinks at him through the dim shade of his room. It takes him a minute to fight through squinting and trying to get his eyes used to the bright light.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em><span class="u">Geralt</span>: 1 – 10?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Something akin to the start of a smile lifts the corner of Eskel’s lip. Simple, to the point, not expecting much of a reply other than essential information. He taps back a quick reply.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong><span class="u">Eskel</span>: 4. </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em><span class="u">Geralt</span>: Not too bad. Better than last time.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t even want to remember that. Every year drifting along, taking him further away from <em>that event</em> dulls his memory somewhat. He liked to think that it was getting better. In the first few years, even a few months before that date, he would feel something horrid and cold start to wash over him and threaten to suffocate and drown. Now he’s down to only feeling shitty the week of, and even then, the emotions are still as vivid and harsh as they’ve always been.</p><p> </p><p><strong><span class="u">Eskel</span>: Not great, either. I’m fine</strong>.</p><p> </p><p>He pauses, thumb hovering over his screen for a moment.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong><span class="u">Eskel</span>: Sorry about all of this. </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>He thinks about putting his phone away, leaving it perched on his bedside table, on silent, and burrowing back into his nest of pillows and blankets. Nothing might be scratching at his skin anymore, but he’s tired and wants to sink as far down as he can into his bed and wait for the rest of the day to slip by without bothering him.</p><p>Before he can do anything, there’s a noise.</p><p>A knock, followed by silence. Eskel turns as much as he can, eyeing the door with caution. It’s not anyone he knows. If Geralt wanted him for something, he would just text. Lambert would let the door fly open, rattling its hinges, and drag him out of his bed by his ankles. His brows knit together. It’s hardly—</p><p>Curiosity lures him out. The floorboards chill his bare feet as he plants them on to the ground, but he hardly acknowledges the chill as he stands, padding over to the door. He cracks it open, just enough to keep his body blocking the way in. He blinks at the sight of Jaskier standing outside, arms loosely folded over his chest and hip cocked slightly.</p><p>“Hi there.”  Jaskier’s smile is as lazy as his posture. He all but slinks into Eskel’s room, a place he’s never been into before, as easily as if he already belonged in there. He does take a moment to regard the shrouded windows and the nest of blankets. Something knits his brows together, but it doesn’t last long.</p><p>He brushes past Eskel as if he weren’t there, striding in with the cocksure attitude he wears so well. He’s strolled around this house, and the rest of the boroughs and their streets, with his head high and shoulders back, knowing that as long as he’s perched where he is, he can do whatever he likes. And he’s terribly fond of doing whatever he likes.</p><p>Eskel blinks as Jaskier ventures further into the room, his arms swaying by his side with each step, chartering out the plan of his room with his eyes, given how diligently he takes everything in.</p><p>Eskel’s mouth opens. Words perch on the tip of his tongue, but his brain is struggling to keep up with the rest of him and make those words move. Before anything can tumble out, his phone pings. He looks down. Geralt’s name flashes on the screen.</p><p>It’s a simple text, as is Geralt’s custom. He makes his point clear and simple, not bothering to fluff anything out more than it needs to be.</p><p>But Eskel runs his eyes over the message, and his tongue thickens in his mouth.</p><p>He <em>does</em> need some sort of further explanation off of the wolf.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em><span class="u">Geralt</span>: Let him take care of you. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He thinks about texting back. Jaskier is too preoccupied with fidgeting and inspecting Eskel’s book-laden shelves and running his fingers along the worn leather spines.</p><p>But, gods alive, what does he even say? Does he send back a series of question marks and hope that Geralt explains what the fuck he’s on about?</p><p>Before he can do anything, Jaskier speaks. His voice is clear, but the tone is what catches him. It’s softer than usual, without the usual swagger laced through it that Eskel has come to know. He’s a mouthy little thing, Geralt’s bird, not afraid to make noise in all sorts of ways. He’s pushed Lambert to the brink before, luring snarls and bared teeth out of the red-haired man just because Jaskier was bored one day, and riling up Lambert is terribly easy. And fun.</p><p>Jaskier’s lips thin. “Geralt told you why I’m here, then?” he muses, keeping his eyes and half of his attention on an old copy of a classic Eskel has had for longer than he can remember. Jaskier is gentle with the book, not bending the crippled spine of it like most tend to do, but slowly luring the pages open with diligent and nimble fingers. “Listen, I don’t know what happened to you. I don’t expect you to tell me. I’m not here to try and find out any of that stuff. I know it probably hurts more than what’s left behind.” His eyes drift to the scars on Eskel’s cheek. He bristles, but Jaskier keeps his words soft and flowing. “But I know that look. I know when someone just needs to be gentled and taken care of.”</p><p><em>I don’t need your pity, bird. </em>Eskel’s tongue sits heavily in his mouth. Whatever words he tries to say sit stubbornly on the tip of it, not budging. His fingers fidget by his side, not quite sure what to do.</p><p>Jaskier sets the book down, leaving Eskel’s things alone as he drifts back over to the man – standing stock-still by the door, letting it click shut as he lets it go. His feet are rooted to the ground, and he doesn’t think he could move if he tried. Jaskier slinks close to him, keeping his steps careful and measured, and making sure that Eskel can sense him coming closer.</p><p>Eskel’s nose flares. The smell of the other man coats the roof of Eskel’s mouth, almost smothering. There’s a scent to him; something musky and familiar. He catches it sometimes when Geralt’s bird flies a bit too close to him, passing him in the hallway or after he’s left a room he’s lingered in for too long. It takes him a moment to realise its cologne, sunk deep into the pores of his skin.</p><p>Another moment passes before he realises its Geralt’s usual scent; now quickly becoming Jaskier’s, considering how well their scents have entwined and blurred.</p><p>He can’t help it, though. Pulling in long lungfuls of it and letting it rest on his tongue.</p><p>The little bird is close to him, almost pressed against his front but not quite. A stubborn sliver of space stays between them. Eskel’s throat bobs.</p><p>“Tell me to go and I’ll go,” he mumbles, making sure Eskel can see the swirls of blues within his eyes. “But if you want me to stay, I’ll make you feel good.”</p><p>He looks down, blinking, as a hand curls around his. Jaskier links their fingers together. They’re long and nimble, but hold strength behind them. The same fingers that diligently and surely know how to pull apart a gun and put it back together again are the same fingers that reach up and pause just shy of Eskel’s face.</p><p>He sees it in the corner of his eye, and he can’t help but flinch. People look, and some people want to touch. Lovers that have drifted too close to him, who speak too softly and with a certain look in their eyes that borderlines on pity, reach out and try to soften him. And he’s hated it. He’s hated their touch and their eyes and the twisted look on their faces when he knows that they’re consoling him.</p><p>And yet, even though he keeps his eye on Jaskier’s lingering and still hand, caught halfway in the air and staying exactly where Eskel’s gaze has pinned it, he can’t help but swallow and breathe out a shaky breath.</p><p>Jaskier squeezes his hand. A soft shudder trembles through him. “I don’t have to touch you there if you don’t want me to.”</p><p>“No, no, I, uh,” Eskel rasps, clearing his throat, “it’s fine, just...It’s been a while since anyone’s...”</p><p>Jaskier nods. Something as simple as that thins his breath. Jaskier doesn’t pity him. When he first saw him, he didn’t avert his gaze like the other pups, but he didn’t stare wide-eyed either. Some sort of acknowledgement went through the little lark – Eskel has scars and he left it at that.</p><p>Eskel wets his lips. They’re dried and cracked and he can feel his throat bobbing with every breath. It’s a lot. It’s a lot and he doesn’t quite know how to deal with it.</p><p>The rest of his breath slips out through his lips as Jaskier’s fingers dust against his cheek. It’s hit and miss with the scarred part of his face. Doctors and their surgeons told him that he would have lost the feeling completely, that it was gone and they could do nothing about it; but then nodded sagely and told him the few apparent exceptions when he returned to them a few months later, saying that he <em>could</em> feel things on the scarred side of his face, and he sometimes felt things too much.</p><p>And it drifts in between. He doesn’t know if it’s one of those days. His senses have already been wrung dry through everything else today. But Jaskier touches him – simple, dusting touches – and his skin erupts in gooseflesh. His breath all but stills and catches in his throat when Jaskier settles his palm against his cheek, his thumb brushing over the marred arch of his cheekbone.</p><p>“Good,” Jaskier murmurs. His eyes are hooded, drifting down to Eskel’s mouth. His fingers drift, turning and brushing a knuckle gently along Eskel’s bottom lip. “What do you need, darling?”</p><p>Eskel’s at a loss for words. <em>Everything</em>.</p><p>Jaskier muses, watching a soft flush of colour swell Eskel’s neck and mouth. “This is about <em>you</em>,” he hums, stepping that bit closer until Eskel’s breath catches again. The long lithe frame of Jaskier pressed against him blooms warmth through him. And he waits for the need to shove him away. The feeling that whatever is washing over him is too much. And it is, but he revels in it. He sinks into that warmth and lets it warm his muscles and bones. Jaskier tilts his head slightly. “I’m here for <em>you</em>, baby. Whatever you want to do, we’ll do. Does that sound okay?”</p><p>Eskel swallows. A lump tries to lodge in his chest, but he manages to bumble out words through it. “Yeah,” he rasps, eyes drifting down to Jaskier’s lips. They’re full and reddened, and all he wants to do is lean down and lure a kiss out of him.</p><p>Jaskier’s lips twitch into a smile. The hand curled into Eskel’s tightens slightly, a firm, comforting pressure that he’s here and with him. “Come with me, darling,” Jaskier lulls, eyes luring and glinting. It takes everything in Eskel not to drown in the swirls of blue. He’ll be lost forever if he ventures too far.</p><p>He treads across Eskel’s room like he’s always done it, knowing where to step and drift and lure Eskel further away from the door and towards his own bed. His nest of blankets is still pooled in the middle, but for the first time in years, he can’t bear the thought of trying to burrow underneath them now. Not while a beautiful little bird is with him and tempting to sing the loveliest of songs.</p><p>Jaskier’s fingers are nimble and sure things, picking at the laces of Eskel’s sweatpants and making short work of them within seconds. Eskel’s hands try and join his, helping, but Jaskier bats them away. When enough of the ties are parted, Jaskier catches the waistband of his sweatpants and shimmies them down to the middle of his thighs. One of Jaskier’s hands wanders, slipping inside to reach for Eskel’s cock. And a short whine manages to slip out of Eskel’s throat.</p><p>Jaskier pulls him out, a hum rumbling out of his throat at what he finds.</p><p>Jaskier settles a gentle hand on to Eskel’s chest and nudges him back, making him sit on the edge of his bed. His legs splay open, letting the little bird wander closer. And he swallows a noise at the first brush of Jaskier’s fingers along the bare swells of muscle in his thighs. A fine perch for Geralt’s bird, if Eskel had more time.</p><p>He has all the time in the world, apparently. The words of Geralt’s text ring through his ear, blinking in front of him just as clearly as Jaskier.</p><p>All Eskel can do is try and steady his breathing – something near impossible to do when Jaskier slinks down on to his knees, reaching out to curl one hand around Eskel’s cock and give it a firm squeeze.</p><p>It lures a sound out of him that hasn’t been heard in a while. The men and women in Viola’s employ might be good for taking the edge off every so often, but quick, messy fucks in the private rooms of clubs and bars, and sometimes even the alleys outside of them, it’s nothing like this.</p><p>Jaskier’s name tumbles out through a moan. It’s high and light, and lures a small smile out of Geralt’s little bird. “I’ve been thinking about this, you know,” Jaskier murmurs, letting his words wash over Eskel entirely. His cock hardens within the man’s hand, even only a couple of sure strokes later. “I could only watch your cock last time, and I’ve been thinking about what it might feel like in my mouth.” His cock twitches. Jaskier strokes him, trying to figure out what he likes and what works. He reaches for Eskel’s hand, placing it gently over his own. <em>Show me</em>.</p><p>Eskel tightens Jaskier’s fist. It’s tight and too dry, and not nearly enough to do anything other than start kindling the fire brewing in his core, but Jaskier palms the head of his cock when the first bead of precum appears, using it to slicken his way.</p><p>His other hand finds Eskel’s balls, rolling them in his palm and pulling gently. A moan tumbles out of him, something that comes from the core of his chest. Jaskier is a quick learner.</p><p>The sight of him between Eskel’s legs is almost what does it. Even this is starting to kindle the flame in him like a wildfire, threatening to engulf him. His tongue thickens in his mouth, words trying to clamber up his throat. He curses through a moan. “I want your mouth,” he manages, meeting Jaskier’s eyes and the glint within them. He knows what he wants to say; and if he knows Jaskier as well as he thinks he does, the glint will only grow. He wets his lips. “Geralt said you had a good mouth. You’re talented with it. I want to see.”</p><p>A grin stretches across Jaskier’s lips. They’re bitten and flushed red and plump, and Eskel desperately wants to curl his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and push him down on to his cock, seeing those lips stretched around it. But that’s what happens with Viola’s men and women, and shouldn’t be for Geralt’s prized bird. He deserves to be worshipped, and if Eskel had the time – and permission – he would bundle Jaskier into his bed and revere him in every way he wanted.</p><p>Jaskier ducks his head, dusting the first gentle kisses along the base of Eskel’s cock. A tight whine slips out of Eskel’s throat, not even caught behind his clamped down jaw. Everything about this little bird is intoxicating, and could very well be the end of him.</p><p>His lips drift, and alongside the slight wet tightness of Jaskier’s hand, Eskel struggles. His knuckles turn white, catching bedsheets. A light hum slips out of Jaskier. “Have you thought about it, then?” he rumbles, most of the words trembling along the length of Eskel’s cock. He’s big, and some of Jaskier’s fingers don’t quite meet around it. Though he doesn’t seem to have any problem with navigating it. Once the first luring words are out, the rest tumble. “Using my mouth? Choking me on your cock?”</p><p><em>Mouthy little thing</em>. He really does have the loveliest songs.</p><p>And he’d be lying if he says no. He’d be lying if he says that he hasn’t thought about it the moment Geralt’s bird perched on his shoulder and started preening. Jaskier is attractive and knows how to lull and lure, and he’s not like the other passing flocks that have drifted in and out of Geralt’s bed. This one has lingered and nested, and Eskel can only assume he knows why.</p><p>Geralt is obsessed with him. How could he not be? Jaskier’s eyes glint when they catch the right beam of light or when a particularly lewd thought crosses his mind. He smiles and laughs and sounds just like a siren, singing the most beautiful songs and knowing how to drown those he hates.</p><p>Eskel’s breath hitches. “You have such a pretty mouth, little thing,” he rumbles, carding his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, combing it back from his face so he can watch those eyes peering up at him. “How could I not? You have such a lovely voice; I’ve thought about ruining it.”</p><p>Jaskier’s pupils expand. The smirk on his lips etches in, unmoving, even as he draws his tongue up the length of Eskel’s cock. His eyes never leave his, and Eskel struggles to keep his breath firm. Jaskier’s hand never stops, tight, long pulls on his cock that has it swelling and leaking already.</p><p>Eskel’s fingers wander, drifting to the back of Jaskier’s neck. He threads some strands of hair through his fingers before he tightens his grip. Jaskier’s expression doesn’t change. If he didn’t want it, he’d say so. But the ocean blue in his eyes that Eskel loves so much is slowly being swallowed by the black of his pupils, and Eskel’s breath thins. “Do you want that, baby?” he rumbles, swallowing a moan at Jaskier licking and kissing his cock. “Do you want me to fuck your throat? Will I send you back to Geralt with a ruined voice?”</p><p>Jaskier gasps, and the hand around Eskel’s cock tightens. His pupils are blown out, the blue that he likes so much completely gone and left dark. Eskel catches one of Jaskier’s hands in his, threading their fingers together. “If you want to stop, let go of my hand. Understood?” he says, as curtly and clearly as he can. Jaskier nods and squeezes.</p><p>“Good boy,” Eskel breathes, threading his free fingers through Jaskier’s hair and guiding him on to his cock.</p><p>His breath catches in his throat at the sudden wet heat engulfing him. <em>Desperate little thing</em>. Jaskier tries to worm himself further down, moaning around the stretch of his lips around Eskel, but the man’s fingers tighten in Jaskier’s hair. He holds him as still as he can, just the head of his cock sitting on his tongue. But, gods alive, does he want to catch the back of Jaskier’s neck and fuck into him. This isn’t one of Viola’s whores and their mouths and tricks. Jaskier’s lips are stretched around him already, tightening as much as they can and his cheeks hollow. His throat almost seems to clench around him, bobbing and making wet noises as Jaskier laves his tongue along the underside of the cock stuffing his mouth.</p><p>When the first harsh ebb of pleasure wanes away, when Eskel’s certain that he isn’t just going to spill himself in the man’s mouth the second he’s settled inside, Eskel lets him move. His breath thins at the wet, tight heat engulfing him. Jaskier takes all of him, and Eskel watches intently.</p><p>“Such a good boy,” Eskel rumbles, revelling in the moan that trembles through Jaskier, vibrating around his cock. His fingers tighten in Jaskier’s hair. Words flow out of him, unbridled and unchained. “Geralt was right,” he grunts, rocking his hips gently, nudging the head of his cock against the back of Jaskier’s throat, “you have the loveliest mouth. A good little bird who sings pretty songs. And a fantastic cocksucker too.”</p><p>Jaskier moans around him. His eyes close, lounging in the feeling of Eskel’s cock sitting on his tongue, plugging his mouth. His nostrils flare. Every breath he draws in is tinted with the harsh musk of the man within him. And Jaskier squirms.</p><p>The fingers at his nape tighten; holding and keeping him pinned. Eskel hums, tilting his head. “What is it, baby?” he asks, voice trembling as Jaskier hollows his cheeks and sucks. Golden eyes wander, down the craned and flexed back, all the way down to the man’s ass. Jaskier squirms again, and a light moan slips out through the cock in his mouth.</p><p>Eskel’s lips quirk into a smile. “Are you hard, little bird?” he hums, letting go of Jaskier’s hair to push what’s stuck to his forehead with sweat away from his eyes. Even now, without having moved much, Jaskier’s eyes start to haze. “Do you need something to rub yourself against? Are you that desperate, hmm? That just having a cock in your mouth is enough to get you hard?”</p><p>Jaskier’s eyes roll and he moans. Eskel dusts the back of his knuckle against the man’s cheek, feeling it tremble as he tries to suck again. “It’s alright, baby,” he rumbles. He stretches his leg out, aiming it between Jaskier’s. Within seconds, his smirk grows at the sight of the man nestled between his legs, on his knees and mouth stuffed full of Eskel’s cock, starts to hump against his leg.</p><p>A growl rumbles up his throat. “Greedy little thing,” he lulls, rocking his hips and driving his cock in and out of Jaskier’s mouth. He meets every thrust, almost gagging as the head brushes the back of his throat. His eyes water, but the hand grasped in his remains firmly there, grip growing tighter and tighter with every roll his hips. “It’s any wonder how Geralt gets anything done, with a pretty thing like you around. <em>Fuck, there</em>, that’s it, baby. Suck me harder, that’s it. We’ve all heard you. Geralt isn’t very fond of sharing his toys, but if you want to make sure the whole fucking house hears you two fucking, who’s to blame us for wondering what would happen if he finally lent out his newest plaything.”</p><p>Spit pools around his cock, slicking the way and gathering at the base. The sounds slipping out of the little bird are enough to have Eskel’s skin lit on fire. Jaskier’s eyes glisten as he tries to crane his head around, humming a moan around Eskel’s cock. <em>Go on</em>.</p><p>“You stink of him, all of the time,” Eskel rumbles, “when you come downstairs in the morning, half-naked and covered in his marks. It’s only fair I send you back to him with marks of my own, hmm? Do you want me to mark your face again, baby, or will you swallow everything I give you?”</p><p>He’s not close, but getting there. The tight suck of Jaskier’s mouth around him, the noises slipping around his cock, and Jaskier humping his leg, it’s all edging him closer. And with how the rolls of Jaskier’s hips have changed and high-pitched whines start slipping out of him, Eskel can tell Jaskier is starting to drift towards the edge too.</p><p>Eskel lifts his leg, pushing his shin against the firm swell of Jaskier’s cock bulging in his jeans. Jaskier moans around him. He fucks into the lark’s mouth. Nothing more than a hole to use at this stage. Jaskier sucks as much as he can, hollowing out his cheeks to edge Eskel along. The noises lured out of him are tight and desperate, and Eskel’s thrusts start to quicken. “Are you close, baby?” he grunts, tightening his hold on the back of Jaskier’s head. Jaskier moans tightly around him. “Come for me then. Show me what a desperate little thing that you are, choking on my cock and humping my leg.”</p><p>Jaskier whines. His hips buck with abandon, just rubbing and grinding and chasing release. It’s as co-ordinated as he can make it, brushing the hard cock caught in the confines of his jeans. It’s rough and not quite enough, but Jaskier rolls his hips and eventually stills. The lips stretched around Eskel’s cock thin and purse, edging him all the more closer to release, but Eskel watches the man’s hips. “Good boy,” he lilts, nudging his leg against the front of Jaskier’s jeans.</p><p>The little bird whines, spilt and sensitive. Eskel smoothes the back of his neck, gentling his fingers along any stretch of skin he can find. And Jaskier trembles. He takes a moment, pulling in steady, long breaths through his nose, before he shuffles and clambers forward. His arm sets around Eskel’s waist, holding himself directly above the man’s cock. With the new angle, he somehow manages to get deeper, delving down the Eskel’s length and pulling him close.</p><p>Eskel threads his fingers through Jaskier’s hair again. Jaskier’s throat spasms around him, cock filling his mouth and reaching for the back of his throat. He can feel his core starting to tighten. The air is thick and heavy with the scent of them – a light sheen of sweat and the musk of release, alongside the hints of Geralt’s cologne amid it all. Eskel pulls as much of the scent into him as he can, feeling his breath start to hitch as his hips quicken. He’s close. Jaskier’s mouth is tight and wet around him, and he’s choking himself on his cock. Eskel’s moan tumbles out of him. “<em>Fuck</em>, baby,” he grunts, rocking his hips, “I’m going to come. That’s it, good boy. You’re so good, <em>fuck</em>—”</p><p>It’s intense and smothering. Eskel comes harder than he’s ever had before. An attempt of Jaskier’s name grunts out of him. Jaskier pulls back up, nestling the head of his cock between his lips, as he sucks. His hand curls around the wet length, pumping out everything Eskel can give him. Eskel watches him, golden eyes with pupils blown out stare at the sight of Jaskier swallowing around him. The deep gulp of this throat has his cock twitching. The bottom of his length is wet and coated in spit. Eskel wraps fingers around it, slowly pumping the last few beads of come into Jaskier’s mouth.</p><p>The man’s eyes glint. He sets his tongue to the underside of Eskel’s head, gathering the beads on his tongue, before swallowing those too. <em>Devious little thing</em>, Eskel hums, gentling his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. The worst of his grip loosens, and Jaskier moves off of him.</p><p>Jaskier holds his eye as he pulls away, a thin stream of spit and cum dragging with him. Eskel’s breath thins and if he had just emptied himself into the man’s mouth, he would set him back on to it again. Jaskier laves his tongue across his bottom lip.</p><p>He can’t look away. Jaskier is alluring and enchanting in every way, and all the days and nights his gaze wandered to Geralt’s prized songbird, perched happily by his side or on his lap, don’t require any more explaining. Geralt surely noticed at some point. The marks left behind were for everyone. A reminder. Jaskier is <em>his</em>. Though here is the little bird, slowly getting to his feet and standing before Eskel.</p><p>His eyes drift down. The front of his jeans is spotted in release, wet and soiled. His tongue sits heavy within his mouth. He reaches up, catching Jaskier’s chin between his fingers. “Fly back to your wolf, little bird,” he rumbles, watching the words wash over Jaskier. Black still encompasses his eyes. Blown out pupils and parted, wet and stained lips, and the faint beginnings of a blush. Eskel has to keep their visit to just this; and maybe ask their boss if he’ll allow more.</p><p>Jaskier tilts his head, freeing himself of Eskel’s hold. A question perches on the tip of his tongue.</p><p>Eskel dusts the back of his knuckles against the ridge of his jaw. Jaskier sighs, tilting his chin up slightly. Eskel’s eyes fall to the man’s lips, lingering on them for a moment. He’d love to kiss him. To find out what those lips feel like against his, and what other noises he could lure out of the songbird.</p><p>Not now. Not today. He’ll ask the White Wolf, as is the way of things. A series of deferring upwards. His core curls at the thought of having Geralt’s little bird again, and all sorts of thoughts run through his mind.</p><p>He’ll just have to wait.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Eskel deserves the world. I love him. </p><p>tumblrs:<br/>yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)</p><p>twitter:<br/>@eyesupmarksman</p><p>Kudos &amp; Comments gladly appreciated!</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>